


Exquisite Consequences: A Kind of Heaven

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, cat!Buffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:53:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: My part of a dhared work. I was given the first paragraph to write from and then when I finished my last paragraph was passed on to the next author in the list. Unsurprisingly, my second exquisite corpse work also got smutty. Posting hastily, may edit later.





	1. part 1

It’d been a dream. All of the sweetness Buffy had given him, and the warm feelings he’d seen in her eyes, it'd been nothing but a bloody dream. His heart sank. The fluffy, gray cat insisted on pushing its way into his lap as Spike sat on his bed, and he petted it with one hand. He’d had a lot of bizarre dreams lately, but this one took the sodding cake. The cat meowed louder and bumped its head against his chin. Damn, he missed Buffy.

Spike gave in to his cat’s demand for caresses for a bit before setting her aside, tossing back the covers and striding naked across the room to the niche where he kept his booze. The cat settled into the nest of his blankets, unperturbed, watching him through narrow eyes as he poured himself a tumbler of Jack. He lifted it high in an ironic toast.

“To Buffy Summers,” he intoned gruffly. “Day number two hundred and twelve. Not that anybody’s counting.” He knocked back the drink fast, knowing it still wouldn’t be fast enough, not after that dream. He’d enough experience now to know that grief came faster than drunken oblivion, no matter how fast he drank and how hard he tried not to think. He poured himself another full glass and began to walk the perimeter of the room.

His pet settled more comfortably into his abandoned bedding, purring, her eyes following him as he paced.

The grief washed over him predictably, and he let it flow — fighting it only made it worse — and when it began to ebb, the sharp pangs replaced by the dull ache of regret, he stumbled back to his bed, not bothering to get under the covers when he fell across the mattress, soon feeling the predictable warm knot of fur settling into the small of his back, still purring, as blissful darkness began to wash him away.

God, he missed her.

And at this point, he couldn’t even wish for a miracle to bring her back. He’d never have her back. Not that he’d ever had her, of course, but a man could dream. And now even that hope was gone.

All he had left was dreams. Dreams and a promise, bare finger-holds in reality.

He sank gratefully back into sleep.

Maybe he’d dream of her again.

*

It had to be a dream. No, not a dream. A nightmare.

When she’d leapt into the portal, gambling that her own blood was enough a part of Dawn that she could close it, she’d been prepared to die – not that she’d known what that would feel like, but she’d been ready to find out. Eager, even. And she’d been prepared for other eventualities as well – being cast into a demon dimension, or sucked into a void of nothingness, or even having the portal disappear beneath her, like a football in the hands of Lucy van Pelt, leaving her to belly-flop onto the cement with a resounding AUUGGGH!

She had not been prepared for this.

At first there had just been blackness, warm and comforting, pulsating with a rhythm that lulled her into a dreamlike state; she’d floated in the healing darkness, dimly aware that she was not alone, that there were others like her, snuggled in close, and she had been at peace at last.

But then the swaddling warmth had constricted around her, over and over, and her companions had disappeared one by one, until she was alone, alone in the darkness that had once been a haven but now was a jail, yearning for its healing warmth even as she wriggled and strove to be free, and then she _was_ free, no longer restricted but cold, so cold, and then she was tumbled and tousled by a rough brushing, or was it a towel? She couldn’t tell, because she still lived in darkness, somehow unable to open her eyes, but after a bit the manhandling ceased and she sensed warmth and moved towards it, and ah! There they were, her companions, and she snuggled in among them and nuzzled into the warmth and there, there was a different warmth flowing down into her empty belly as well, sweet nectar; she drank it down until she felt plump and full, and then she nestled into the softness, feeling her companions on all sides of her and curled around them all a larger presence, and just as she vaguely identified that rumbling, purring warmth as _mother_ she slid into sweet sleep.

She slept and woke and fed, an aimless flow of life, and soon she began to reach out into the darkness, feeling the world around her. She was the most adventurous of all her siblings, venturing farther and farther from the warmth of _mother_ , sometimes so far that a rumbling growl of warning would sound and she would find herself caught up and dragged back into the warm pile of family, part of her – the part that remembered what it was to be Buffy Summers – wild with frustration at being pent up, and another part of her – the part that was not Buffy, as well as a secret corner of the part that was – eager to curl into the shelter of _mother_ , and so she’d continued her explorations, gradually remembering more and more of who she was, until one day she opened her eyes and there was light, she could see, and with the light came memories of other light, other sights, and as she swam back into full awareness of herself, Buffy blinked up in confused disbelief at _mother_ , whose yellow eyes gazed back with a somehow-familiar expression of exasperated pride.

Mother was a cat.

And as she gazed down at herself — fuzzy grey paws clenching and unclenching, tiny white claws appearing and disappearing – she realized she was a cat, too.

Buffy Summers, the Chosen One, the Slayer, had somehow been reborn as a fluffy kitten.

Her epiphany was so shocking that she must have spent all of a minute wondering what the hell was going on before a flicker of motion caught her attention and she toddled off to pounce on a mote of sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees above.

Later, when she’d re-explored the shady grove that was their home, and chased all the interesting specks she could now see, and fed, and finally been corralled by _mother_ for a rough tongue-bath, she pondered the ramifications of her epiphany. She didn’t know much about reincarnation — she had been raised nominally Christian, though the kind who didn’t actually do much churchgoing or praying or Bible-reading, just occasionally took the Lord’s name in vain and watched those religious movies that showed up around Christmas and Easter, if nothing better was on — but she thought the idea was that you were supposed to come back as another person, unless you were an awful person and then you came back as a cockroach or an earthworm, and then got stepped on. She didn’t recall ever hearing about where kittens fit into the whole cycle.

She’d have thought, if she had ever given it any thought, that her noble endeavors as a Slayer would have led to some sort of reward in the afterlife — if not Heaven, whatever that actually was, then at least a brief gathering of angels where they all told her what a good job she’d done, particularly the bit where she sacrificed her life to save her sister and the world. But as she thought on it more, purring in harmony with her fuzzy family, did it really matter?

There were all sorts of questions she supposed needed to be asked, such as _why a kitten?_ and _how did this all happen?_ and _what had happened to Dawn and her friends and the portal after she jumped?_ and _did this mean she should be Buddhist now?_ but in the end, she had no way of finding out the answers to those questions, which also weren’t nearly as interesting as chasing that moth that had just fluttered into view. (She took it down handily, of course.) So she let them drift to the back of her mind, only occasionally ruminating on them while she was at leisure.

Living in the moment was its own reward, she decided. It was a little weird, being a cat and Buffy at the same time, but something about her duty-less days made her feel… complete. And her Buffy-memories were clear, but also distant, and so she felt carefree.

She’d forgotten what that felt like.

Once she had come to, if not peace, at least a guarded détente with her cat nature and lack of thumbs, Buffy had had to admit that life as a kitten did come with certain advantages. She might not have Slayer strength, but she was lithe and nimble, and there must have been some vestiges of her gift left to her, because she soon surpassed her littermates at the important lessons of Hunting and Protecting Territory and Lounging in the Sun. It was nigh-blissful to be responsible for no more than her own survival; certainly her fellow kittens didn’t expect protection from her, or anything at all, even though she was already catching mice — plural — while they were still figuring out how to pounce effectively.

She grew quickly in the mild California summer, until _mother_ made it plain that she had done her job and it was time for her kittens to get on with their own lives, adjacent to hers perhaps but no longer under her care. The milk wagon was closed for business.

And Buffy was _so_ ready to be independent.

Unfortunately, the very day she ventured out of their secret hollow, vaguely curious as to where and when in the world she actually was, she found herself picked up by a pair of green, scaly hands and lifted higher and higher until she was staring into an equally green, scaly face, red eyes and a fanged mouth and a forked tongue darting out to lick scaly lips. Or where lips would be if it had lips.

“I think I’ll call you _Auntie_ ,” the demon said smugly, and stuffed Buffy the kitten into a burlap bag.

She squirmed and wriggled and clawed, but she was still a kitten, and so the burlap bag might as well have been made of steel ropes for all the effect she had on it; finally, she subsided into a sulky ball at the bottom of the bag, listening to the muffled noises outside and waiting for the slightest opportunity to escape her peril.

…Was she really in peril, though? The demon had named her, which meant he intended to keep her, right? She supposed a demon could keep a kitten as a pet if they liked, though she’d never known any who did. But geez, could he have picked a lamer name? “Auntie” was a name of which T.S. Eliot, she was sure, would not approve. She resolved that she would ignore him if he tried to call her that, until he gave her a more suitable name. Like… Killer. She could go for being Killer the Kitten.Or maybe Pickles.

She was startled out of her ruminations by being upended and then tumbled, right out of the bag and onto a table under a bright light. She blinked around the table, quickly taking in the faces of other demons staring down at her, and then she leapt in what she thought was the direction they’d entered from, intent on escape, only to skid into a pair of black boots that were just coming in the door she was headed for. Before she could regain her footing she was caught up in another pair of hands, and she had just enough time to be relieved that they were _human_ hands before she came face to face with her latest captor and froze in shock.

It was Spike.

He was looking at her with an expression of amused disdain, and it surprised her how surprised she was at that look — how long had it been since she’d seen it directed at her? She thought back through the Buffy-memories that were still bubbling through her cat-thoughts…. Long before she’d known he was in l— obsessed with her, she realized. God, she’d been blind not to notice.

“Hey!” came Green and Scaly’s voice from behind her. “No fair pawing the stakes, Spike.”

Buffy glanced around her, wondering if Spike was going to start slaying here and now, but then she was sailing through the air in a lazy arc, landing in the demon’s hands.

“Never you worry, mate,” Spike drawled affably. “We’re all friends here. Not going to do anything to ruin our convivial little game.”

Buffy’s sharp ears caught Mr. Greenjeans muttering something about not trusting Spike as far as a kitten could throw him — she managed to catch a glimpse of Spike’s face that told her he’d heard it too — but then a harmless-looking demon whose skin drooped off his face and body in thick folds rubbed his hands together with what she presumed was a conciliatory smile.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” he proclaimed. “Ante up!”

Buffy found herself dropped into a basket in the center of the table, where she was joined by several other kittens — none of her siblings, she realized with relief, just before another realization set her tiny limbs aquiver.

_Ante_ , not Auntie.

Were these demons _gambling for kittens_?

Oh, she was _so_ not sticking around to find out why.

She took off at top speed, this time aiming for a tiny window high in the wall opposite the door, but she was snagged by one of the players and returned to the basket, where her fellow kittens were happily playing, ignorant of their role as currency. She tried again, this time heading for a different wall with the intent of ricocheting to one of the exits, but she was snatched up again, this time by loose-skin-guy. Again and again she launched herself out of the basket, and again and again she was returned, until she finally found herself back in Spike’s hands. Instead of returning her to the kitten pile, he curled his hand around her, clutching her close to his chest. She wriggled and struggled, but he had her well and truly trapped, and so finally she subsided into panicked panting, her heart racing with fear.

A chorus of objections rose from Spike’s tablemates; he shrugged, the fabric of his T-shirt catching on her whiskers.

“Not stealing him,” he said lazily. “Just keeping my future winnings from walking away.”

Greeny scoffed at that. “In your dreams, Spike. Tonight’s my lucky night. My husband’s already cooking up his world-famous molé sauce, just waiting for some tender meat.”

Droopy sighed. “I dunno. I always find the hyperactive ones are a bit gamey.”

Buffy glared over Spike’s fingers. Was he actually saying she looked less tasty than the other kittens? She felt vaguely offended.

“Just deal,” Spike growled, and the poker game commenced.

For lack of anything better to do, Buffy watched the game, occasionally trying a subtle wriggle to get out of Spike’s grasp, but he was wise to her, keeping her snug to his chest, not seeming to care about her sharp claws. After the first hand was concluded — he won with three aces — he brought his free hand up to stroke her head, almost absently. Buffy was mortified when she felt herself purring. He was evil! She shouldn’t purr for evil! Except… apparently kittens didn’t care so much about that. And she had to admit, it felt nice.

More kittens were set in the basket — Spike had gathered his winnings into a cardboard box by his side, folding the lid against the mewing — and another hand was dealt; Buffy thought it was weird she hadn’t ended up in the box, too, now that he’d won her, but she wasn’t complaining. At least as long as he was holding her, she had a fighting chance. She waited until he was engrossed in his cards and then made another bid for freedom; this time, to her surprise, she got loose, landing on her feet next to his chair, too shocked to run.

“Whoops,” Spike said, his voice sounding oddly not-surprised. “Better catch my lucky chip.”

Buffy tried to scramble away from his big hands, but as he scooped her up, she watched him neatly tug an ace of spades out of his sleeve, dropping a six of hearts and setting his boot on top of it.

He was using her as cover for cheating!

She _knew_ he was still evil!

Buffy watched this hand more closely, growling a little in her chest even as her purring kept on. Spike won again, using his free hand to scoop up his fresh kittens one by one and put them in the box. He kept her out.

But as Buffy watched the game, she noticed something: Spike wasn’t the only one cheating. Loose-skinned guy would start talking about some TV show or other, and then nonchalantly switch out cards from the loose folds of his arms. Greeny was using his claws to make subtle scratches in the backs of the cards, marking them. Even that other guy, with the horns, had a way of scrutinizing everyone else’s hands before bidding that gave her the impression he could actually see through the thin cardboard. From the amount of cheating going on, she was surprised they hadn’t ended up with sixteen aces on the table at once!

It was hard to stay outraged while she was purring, though — Spike was still fondling her head absently while cards were being dealt, or when he folded, though he handed her off to Droopy when it was his turn to deal — and eventually she settled into a doze, the demonic voices rising and falling almost like a lullaby.

She awoke with a start when Spike stood up.

“Well, I think I’ve robbed you gentlemen enough for one evening. Something on the telly I wanted to catch.” He disengaged Buffy’s tiny claws from his T-shirt — she’d dug in a bit while purring — and tucked her away in his box. There were a good dozen other kittens in there now, mewing plaintively now that they were locked away. Buffy joined in, not happy about being added to the general population of kitty prison.

The box moved and shifted, and the voices grew fainter, and then she felt it being set down and heard the click of Spike’s lighter. The cigarette smoke smelled harsher than she remembered it being.

After a while, she heard the leather of Spike’s duster rustle.

“Thought you’d never get here, mate.”

“Sorry, Spike. I can’t leave too soon after you or they’ll know we’re teaming up. Plus Grshlak borrowed my Dawson’s videos last week, I had to find out when I could get them back. He’s really bad about remembering that stuff, and with the new season starting up I need to have a marathon. You and Dawn can come if you want.”

Buffy’s ears perked up at Dawn’s name. Since when did Dawn hang out with demons? For the first time, Buffy wondered how long it had been since her leap.

“Have to see what the Bit’s got planned. Now, we doing business tonight or what?”

“Well, yeah. Been looking forward to this all week. Five a head, wasn’t it?”

The box lid opened, and Buffy stared up at the opening. Spike’s face was there, cigarette dangling from his lips. His companion was the loose-skinned guy. His red eyes roved hungrily over the mass of kittens.

“I count thirteen. You?”

“That’s what I got. Sixty-five and they’re yours.” The lid closed before Buffy could leap out.

There was a sound of rustling paper. “Thanks for helping me out with this, Spike. My luck’s not been too good lately. I was about to start eating my Betamax collection.”

“Can’t have that,” Spike murmured.

The box moved, and Buffy meowed louder, leaping up against the lid, because even if the other kittens were oblivious, she had a good idea what was going on, and she had _not_ been reincarnated just to become Droopy’s midnight snack!

“Whoa!” The pink demon’s voice came from nearby; he must be the one holding the box now. “Your lucky chip’s a feisty one!”

“That he is.” Spike sounded bored, but when she leaped again, thudding against the cardboard, he started to laugh. “Here, mate, let me save you the trouble of chasing him down.”

There was a pause, and then the box was set down again.

“Really, Spike? What are you going to do with a kitten?”

“Dunno,” came Spike’s voice. “Maybe give him to the Bit. She could use… something.”

The box opened again, and Spike’s hand scooped Buffy up. It was starting to feel familiar.

Spike held her up, turning her so they were face to face. “Grown attached to this little fellow,” he said, voice soft though his expression was harsh. “He made a good partner in crime.”

“She.”

“What?”

“The kitten’s a girl.”

“Is she, now? How do you know?”

The demon rolled his red eyes. “It’s not hard, Spike.”

_Oh, hell no!_ Buffy struggled, digging in her claws, but to no avail; Spike easily tugged her tail out of the way, regarding her backside with a raised eyebrow.

“Huh,” he finally said, releasing her tail. “Well, never mind the bollocks — or the lack thereof.”

She bit his hand.

He laughed. “Definitely my type of girl.”

“If you’re sure,” the demon said dubiously, folding the box shut. “You’ll have to get a litter box, though. And cat food.”

Spike shrugged, looking into Buffy’s furious eyes again. “Suppose I will.” He averted his eyes suddenly and stuffed Buffy into his pocket, keeping his hand on top of her. “And don’t worry, mate. If I change my mind, I’ll give you first crack at buying her off me. I’ll do my best to fatten her up in the meantime.” Buffy squirmed and clawed at that, but he started fondling her ears again with those infernal evil fingers of his, and she started purring, even as she was gnawing on his thumb.

“Just make up your mind soon. She’ll start to toughen up in a month or so.”

“All right then.”

Buffy’s latest prison started to swing — Spike must be walking — and she gave up on the struggling and let him pet her, because it was still better than being eaten.

She was in the pocket a long time, swinging with his stride and grudgingly allowing herself to be caressed, but finally she heard the pneumatic whoosh of a door opening and a cheerful voice that sounded an awful lot like the perky night-shift greeter at the Walmart.

A few minutes later, Buffy heard the clinking of metal, and suddenly her space was invaded by a couple of hard metal objects; Spike’s soothing hand scooped under her belly and lifted her up so they were underneath her. She felt out the shapes beneath her with her paws and whiskers; they were cans of some sort.

There was a muffled conversation, and then the sound of a cash register, and then the swing of walking began again — less comfortable with the cans beneath her, though Spike was still petting her — and then she smelled grass and dirt, and then dust, and she heard a creak that she recognized: the door to Spike’s crypt. So he’d taken her home. There was the scrape of stone against stone, then the thud and clatter of something being dropped to the lower level, and then she felt them descending the ladder to Spike’s private quarters. Finally he scooped her up and out of his pocket, setting her down on the bed.

She bolted for the exit.

He’d slid the stone slab back into place above the ladder, though, and the way to the tunnels had been blocked off as well, and so she dove under the bed, trembling, finding a place where she could see his feet but he likely couldn’t reach her. She watched as he poured cat litter into a plastic tub, and then watched his feet head over towards his fridge. She couldn’t see up past his ankles, but she heard a pop, and then the grinding of a can opener, and then….

...then she smelled the _best thing ever_.

She knew the smell, she’d smelled it before as a human, it was just tuna, but for some reason now it didn’t just smell like _just tuna_ , it smelled like heaven, like a Thanksgiving feast (minus the arrows), like manna from heaven and ambrosia and pure ecstasy all at once, and before she could tell her paws no, she had scuttled out from under the bed and crouched where she could watch him as he opened the can and dumped the contents, water and all, into a chipped china bowl.

When he set the bowl on the ground, she crept over, growling up at him, and took her first bite.

It tasted better than it smelled.

He was petting her again, and she noticed distantly that her body was arching into his hand, the pleasure of being petted layering on top of the ecstasy that was _just tuna_ until she thought she might well be in heaven.

When she’d licked the bowl clean, she growled up at him again and dove back under the bed, choosing a spot from which she could watch him.

“Bloody women,” Spike muttered, but his voice sounded almost fond. He left the empty bowl on the ground and headed back towards his fridge, opening it and staring at the contents for a long while. He sighed at last and took up a styrofoam container. “Can’t keep your promise if you starve, can you?” he muttered to himself, taking a drink. “ _Till the end of the world_ , that’s what you said.”

Buffy froze.

He finished, tossing the container off towards an overflowing trash can, and snatched up a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, taking a hearty swig and looking into the greenish mirror of a vanity table that Buffy was fairly certain had once held his shrine to her. “One hundred and twenty,” he said obscurely to his lack of reflection, lifting the bottle high and clinking it against the mirror’s glass before tilting it back and chugging down enough liquor Buffy thought it was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe.

Then he shucked off his shirt.

Buffy blinked, thinking for a moment that she should look away, but then she remembered that she was a cat, and he was a vampire, and so there was nothing at all wrong with her watching him undress — he really did have a pretty back, though maybe it was just residual tuna-bliss giving her affectionate thoughts.

He took off his boots and puttered around the room drinking and lighting candles for a few minutes with his shirt off — enough time for Buffy to be fairly certain her appreciation of his back was not just tuna-goggles — but when he started to unfasten his jeans, she scurried further under his bed, not certain she was ready for the sight of Spike in his underwear.

Or — she sneaked a peek to be certain she was not mistaken — nothing at all. Whoa.

The cat part of her was of course profoundly disinterested, but the Buffy part was conflicted. On the one hand, Spike was probably still evil, and so that magnificent rear end she had caught a glimpse of was also evil, along with the parts she hadn’t yet glimpsed. On the other hand, she was a cat, and so there really wasn’t anything morally wrong in her checking out Spike in the buff. It wasn’t like sex was even remotely on the table. It was just… aesthetic interest.

Her dilemma was solved when he fell heavily onto the bed, out of sight. The springs groaned above her.

_He’s still evil_ , she reminded herself. _No matter how pretty his back is._

Still, she did owe him something for his saving her from becoming dinner. Not actual affection – she reserved the right to choose her own friends, thank you very much, and he was obviously still totally evil, muscles and all – but there had to be something she could do to repay him her blood debt.

And, listening to the scurrying of tiny feet in the corners of Spike’s crypt, she knew just the blood to repay him with.

The next afternoon, when Spike woke up and stood and stretched, she greeted him with an aloof demeanor – averting her eyes from his nakedness, as she’d eventually decided was only proper – and a neat row of dead mice.

He looked down at her with faint amusement. “Quite the little slayer, you are, pet,” he murmured in a rumbly voice, before his face twisted with something like pain. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, visibly collecting himself, then turned back to her, kneeling down and giving her flattened ears an affectionate rub. “Perhaps you could eat those for me, then? Dead mice aren’t my preferred breakfast of champions, much as Dru liked her little snacks.”

Buffy deigned to nibble at one of the mice, as they were quite tasty, and it gave her more of an excuse not to look at all the parts he was exposing as he knelt. Or, well, not to look too much, because it was kind of hard not to see said parts when they were right there, and she had to admit she was a teensy bit curious. The Buffy part of her couldn’t help but be interested, even if his parts were certified evil. Still, she growled – just a tiny bit – as Spike fondled her ears again, just in case he got the idea that they were actually friends. They so weren’t. He was just useful.

“Suppose I should give you a name,” Spike muttered, finally going in search of some clothes. He was silent for a long time, face working with emotion as he shoved his legs into the jeans he dug up. “Can’t call you that,” he said at last. “Only one Slayer for me now. Can’t–“ He broke off again, glaring at her. “Not calling you Buffy either,” he growled. “Bugger that. Not that pathetic.”

Buffy twitched her ears and the very tip of her tail. Cat eyes weren’t very good for rolling, she had learned, but she’d also learned to compensate.

Spike muttered to himself as he slipped on a T-shirt and then sat on the ground near the dwindling line of mice – no sense them going to waste, Buffy had deemed with feline practicality – to tug his boots on. He watched Buffy eat as he tied his laces, then reached out again to gently scratch her right under her ear, right where she’d been itching. She leaned into it a little because it felt nice, though she growled again because nope, still not friends.

“Summer,” he said at last. “Can call you Summer. And I’m not naming you after her. Just giving you a name. That’s all right.” His voice was rough and harsh, like he was expecting Buffy to talk back.

She ignored him, grooming her paws regally, but when he ruffled her ears again, she let her eyes close in pleased acceptance.

He might be a monster, but he sure knew how to scratch an ear.

*

Spike had just decided that the best place to put the third elaborate scratching post gymnasium he’d liberated from the PetSmart was on the far side of the crypt, where the window let in a shaft of sunlight just perfect for a kitten to lounge in, when he heard a knock on the door.

He rolled his eyes in preemptive annoyance. The only people who bothered to knock on his door were the Scoobies, struck by a sudden plague of manners now that they needed Spike. “Come in,” he called out, adding “wanker” under his breath, because of the Scoobies, only one insisted on knocking “shave and a haircut.”

Even though Spike had never, not once, answered back the “five bob.”

Xander entered with his usual lack of grace — predictably knocking out “five bob” on the door behind him — and stopped in his tracks, goggling at Spike.

“Wow,” he said, eyes traveling the breadth of the crypt. “Um, taking up a new hobby, Spike? Or—”

He cut off when Summer dashed out from her hidey-hole in Elaborate Scratching Post Gymnasium Number Two, weaving affectionately between the prat’s legs. Spike glared at her. Bloody bitch. Since he’d taken her in, she’d been hot and cold — demanding tuna more often than he suspected was good for her, grudgingly presenting herself to be petted while growling and occasionally literally biting the hand that fed her, and then — just when he was about to pop her in a take-out container for Clem — turning those _eyes_ on him and snuggling up under his chin and…. He knew it wasn’t rational, the way he was trying to buy a bloody kitten’s love, but he just couldn’t say no to those eyes, felt compelled to bend over backwards to please them.

They were just the right shade of green.

It figured the minx would be irrationally fond of Xander bloody Harris.

“Well, that answers that question,” Xander said as if Spike should care. “And opens up a whole Jeopardy Show of yet still stranger questions. Spike, _why_ do you have a kitten?”

Spike turned his glare up a notch. “Why the bloody hell wouldn’t I?”

Xander gaped for a moment before his face slid into that crooked everyman grin that he apparently thought was charming. “Well, you have to admit, it’s not usually part of the traditional vampire schtick.”

“And since when have I ever been a slave to tradition?” Spike snapped, then sniffed defensively. “Could be a man-eating demon kitten, getting you to let down your guard so it can eat your bloody face off.”

Xander blinked owlishly down at Summer, who was affectionately rubbing her head against his work boots. “ _Is_ it a man-eating demon kitten?” he asked at last.

Spike rolled his eyes. “No. It’s just a bloody kitten.”

“But not a _bloody_ kitten,” Xander said carefully.

“Look, it’s a kitten. It’s here. It apparently has very bad taste in human beings. Now, why are you invading my humble home?”

Xander looked away, face suddenly serious. “There’s been… there’s been some stuff we’ve been keeping from you. Keeping from you and Dawn. Giles too, though now that he’s back in England that doesn’t matter so much.” He fell silent then, staring off at nothing.

“If it’s about the repair bills for the plumbing—”

“No!” Xander hastened to reply. “Nothing like that. It’s… well, it’s about Buffy.”

Spike felt a slice of cold through his belly at the sound of the name. He wondered if that would ever change. “Been hiding her away in the attic, then?” he growled, annoyed.

“No, it’s…” Xander took a deep breath and looked Spike square in the face. “Willow’s been researching a way to bring her back.”

Spike noticed that Summer had stopped her affectionate greeting and had cocked her head up at Xander, like she was listening. It was easier to notice that than really focus on what Harris was saying. “Bring her back.” He turned and stalked over to where he had last seen his bottle of Jack. It was empty. “The Bit tried that once, for her mum. Didn’t turn out all too well, as I recall.”

“Dawn doesn’t have Willow’s power,” Xander said defensively, then shook himself. “But that’s not the point.”

“And you felt you couldn’t let me in the secret clubhouse?” God, how pathetic he had gotten, feeling even the tiniest tremor of hurt at being left out of what passed for his own social group yet again. Not that he wanted to hang out with the bloody Scoobies, but he’d thought over the past summer they’d become… comrades of a sort. Working together towards a common goal, that sort of rot.

To give him credit, Xander looked ashamed. “We thought you might try to stop us.”

“Damn right I would have. Resurrection’s not a bloody game. Cock it up, and you’re looking at far worse than an unprotected Hellmouth.”

Xander opened his mouth to speak again, then his eyes widened in sudden pain. “Ow!” he yelled, glancing down. Summer was hissing, her earlier affection gone; pinpoints of blood were starting to stain the leg of Xander’s pants where she’d apparently dug in her claws. She zipped off, crouching angrily in the patch of sunlight Spike had arranged for her, still growling.

“Smart kitty,” Spike murmured, turning and lighting a few candles so as to not have to look at Xander’s face.

Xander grimaced, rubbing his leg. “Point is, we… we decided not to. Willow was working on gathering the final ingredients, but then she and Tara did a… I don’t know, some sort of pre-spell thing, to get an initial bead on where…. where Buffy ended up. We were thinking she’d landed in some demon dimension, you know? Like Angel did. Writhing in eternal torment. But when they went looking, they found….” He trailed off, swallowing. “She’s right here.”

Spike turned slowly. “Here.”

“Well, not _here_ here. Here, on this plane. Between the two of them, they were able to determine that her soul had… how did Tara put it? It had already returned to the cycle of rebirth.”

“Meaning?”

Xander’s voice started moving faster, like a runaway train. “She’s been reborn. We don’t know where, or how. Tara says we don’t even really know when — she says there’s some argument about when exactly ensoulment occurs in babies. Some think it’s right at the moment of conception, see, and then other people argue that it’s later, maybe not even until the moment of birth and—”

“Shut it!” Spike threw his empty bottle against the sarcophagus. It shattered gratifyingly.

Xander was silent for a long time before continuing. “Willow thought for a bit that it didn’t matter, that she could still call her back to… to where she belonged. But it turns out that if we did that, then whatever life Buffy was born into, the new one?” He swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. “It would have to die. We’d be… we’d be killing her all over again. Murdering the new baby Buffy. And then Tara said she’d probably be happier, you know? Having a fresh new life. And it wouldn’t be right for us to… to take that away.”

Spike barely managed to refrain from launching a fist at the boy’s face, chip or no. “No,” he said harshly. “It wouldn’t.”

Xander stood in silence again, the only sound the faint growling still coming from Summer’s throat. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. We should have.”

“Yeah.”

“I just thought that… you know, if it didn’t work, then there’d be no harm done. And then if it did… well, I thought you’d be happy. You know, when you finally saw her face to face.”

Spike didn’t bother to answer that. They both knew he’d crawl across broken glass just to see Buffy smile again. Or frown. Or even punch him in the nose.

“I’m sorry,” Xander said again. “But I thought now…. now, at least, you should know. We tried.” He turned and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “I miss her, too,” he said quietly, and left.

Spike managed to wait until the boy was well gone — or gone enough Spike could at least pretend the twat couldn’t hear — before he broke, cursing and punching the stone pillar again and again until his knuckles were bloody, and then when he finally had enough pain in his hand to half-drown out the pain in his heart, he sank to the floor, sobbing as if she’d just bloody died right in front of him again.

He hadn’t realized how much hope he’d been holding on to in his heart until it was ripped away. Heroes always came back, didn’t they? She’d died before, he knew. Somehow he’d still believed, somewhere deep in the back of his heart, that she’d be back, that she’d pop up one day ready to chew bubblegum and kick ass again. But it wasn’t going to happen.

Buffy was never coming back.

After a bit, he managed to pull himself together enough to realize that something was bumping into his elbow, and he looked down to see the bloody cat, butting her head against him, purring faintly.

“Time for your bloody tuna, is it?” Spike muttered.

She slowly blinked her too-green eyes, ducking her head under his hand.

And so he scratched her ears, and stroked her fur, and after a bit he scooped her up and buried his face in her soft warmth and wept some more — she growled again at that, though she was still purring, the bloody confusing feline — and then he finally rose to his feet and opened up a can of tuna, watching her eat with bleak resignation.

“That’s the last can,” he grumbled. “After this, it’s dry kibble for you.”

And then when the sun had set, he slung on his duster and headed to the grocery store, where he bought another bottle of bourbon and stuffed his pockets full of canned fish, including some salmon this time for variety’s sake.

That was just how pathetic he was now.

*

Buffy was not sure what to think of Spike, but she mostly dealt with that by not thinking all that much, which was easy enough for a cat. He gave her tuna, which was nice, and he petted her, which was also nice, and somehow he also had figured out how to summon a glowing red light-bug that she could chase and pounce on and yet it _always came back_. And so she had to admit that he made a perfectly acceptable servant for a cat, his evil tendencies overlookable.

Now, if he stopped bringing her tuna? She might reconsider.

Living indoors, she didn’t have a very good grasp on the actual flow of time — sometimes she had a patch of sun to nap in, and sometimes she did not, just as sometimes Spike was clothed and sometimes he was not, presumably marking days somehow — but she didn’t think much time had passed since his breakdown when she was startled out of a good sunbathe by a knock on the door, followed by the door swinging wide.

“Spike? He was probably kidding, but I just had to come see for myself. Xander says you have a—”

_Dawn!_

Buffy hurtled from her upholstered perch, purring madly and rubbing her face all over her sister’s legs, because she’d missed her _so much_ — not in a worrying sort of way, because really, worrying was not a thing she did any more, but it was just so good to see her!

“Omigod! He was right! You have a kitten!”

“Almost a cat now,” Spike grumbled, not bothering to get up from the tattered couch he’d dragged back from the dump the other night. (It had been gratifyingly infested with feisty junkyard mice for Buffy to hunt.)

Buffy felt Dawn’s hands scoop her up, and she purred even more, snuggling happily into Dawn’s chin, because it was Dawn, it was _Dawn_ , she _loved_ Dawn—

Oooh, light bug!

She leapt after the tantalizing prey, distantly hearing Dawn and Spike speaking behind her, but of course that was way less important than the tricksy light bug. She was _so_ going to get it this time! She was!

“She’s adorable! Where did you get her?”

“Won her in a game of cards.”

“No, really.”

Spike sighed. “She just followed me home one day. Must have thought I was an easy mark.”

“Well, you sure proved her wrong.” A bit of Buffy sang at the sarcastic tone. God, she’d even missed that attitude!

“What?”

“Spike, you have more cat toys per square foot than a pet store cat-toy aisle.”

“Do not.”

“And your trash is full of tuna cans.”

“Vampires can eat tuna. Good for the teeth.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyhow, now you’ve met Summer, so why don’t you just—”

“You named her Summer? That’s so cool! I should take her home with me, then she can be Summer Summers….”

“You’re not taking her home!” Buffy flattened her ears at the sharp tone. He couldn’t talk to Dawn like — _bug!_

“Can I come visit her here every day then?” Ah, Buffy remembered that tone, too, the _I just painted you into a corner by asking for something I didn’t really want so I could get what I did really want_ tone. She’d laugh smugly at Spike if that darn lightbug weren’t so infuriating.

Spike sighed again. “Thought tonight was movie night.”

“It is.” Dawn’s voice was smug. “I brought the popcorn.”

The lightbug danced in front of Buffy’s eyes fretfully. “And the movie? Or am I supposed to go fetch that for you?”

“Brought that too. Seen this one?”

“Oh, yeah,” Spike snarked. “Nothing gets me to watch a movie faster than a pretty white unicorn on the cover. I am evil, you know.” The lightbug disappeared from Buffy’s paws. She blinked. Had she eaten it and forgotten? “Willow and Tara know you’re here?”

“Yeah, they just said you had to escort me back home by nine, and that I should be careful, blah-blah-blah, the usual.”

Buffy decided she must have eaten the bug — it certainly couldn’t have gotten away, she was too good a hunter for that — and turned her attention back to — _Dawn!_ She loved Dawn! She darted over to where Dawn was already kneeling down by an ancient VCR, pushing buttons, and rubbed up against her leg, asking for attention.

“Right. Well, I suppose I can put my evil plans for the afternoon on hold—”

“What evil plans? A catnip heist? Yeah, you and your kitten are sooooo evil.” Dawn gave Buffy a scratch on the head — not as well as Spike did, but she made up for it by being Dawn — and sauntered over to sit on the opposite end of the couch from Spike. Buffy followed her, jumping up onto the center cushion.

Spike snorted defensively. “What? Cats and evil have gone hand-in-hand for ages. Just think of Vito Corleone. Ernst Stavro Blofeld.”

“Not to mention Gargamel and Azrael,” Dawn said with an eyeroll. Buffy flicked her tail. Why were they spending so much time talking about cats who weren’t her, when she was _right here_ to be petted? She rolled pointedly onto her back.

“That’s right. It’s so bloody ubiquitous that it even bled over into Saturday morning kiddie fare.” Spike finally got her subtle hint, rubbing her belly with absent affection. Mmmm, nice.

“Those are cats, though. Not kittens.” Dawn reached across Buffy to snag the remote from Spike’s free hand. Buffy cast him a beguiling glance, hoping he’d notice that her ears were totally available for his conveniently-also-available evil fingers.

“Only way to train ‘em up right, Bit. Start them down the evil path when they’re young.” There, he’d noticed; Buffy purred, catching his hand lovingly in her claws to keep the pets going.

“What. Ever.” Dawn propped a plastic bag of popcorn up against the back of the couch and pressed buttons on the remote.

Her hand came down to pet Buffy’s flank as music came from the old TV; Buffy stretched out and luxuriated in the attention from her favorite person in the whole world and her other fav— she hit the brakes on that cat-thought before she could finish it — and Spike. Who gave her tuna and knew his way around an ear-scritch. That was all.

Buffy was licking popcorn butter off Spike’s fingers when she heard him sniffle.

“Spike, tell me you’re not crying at this scene.” Dawn’s voice dripped with disbelief.

“What?” Spike growled. “It’s very moving, is all.”

“It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Well, yeah, but see, it plays into the central theme of immortality and love, so later on, when the Lady Amalthea—” Spike cut off abruptly.

“I thought you hadn’t seen this one,” Dawn said with a snicker.

“Might have, once or twice,” he muttered, suddenly very interested in Buffy’s ears, of which she approved.

“You are such a liar!”

“Evil.”

The movie continued on, thunder crashing and dramatic music playing, and Buffy gazed up at Spike, who was looking down at her, eyes somehow empty. It didn’t feel right. Spike was supposed to be full of humor and challenge and… Spikeness. She pawed at his leg, unsettled.

“I will keep the color in your eyes when no other in the world remembers your name,” he said softly, stroking her belly.

Buffy purred and arched into his touch. That was better.

Okay, so he was her other favorite person after all.

*

Spike descended the ladder to his bedroom, Summer tucked under his arm — she was a brave little thing, eager to take on the steep ladder, but he worried she might lose her footing. Landing on your feet didn’t mean much to a cat plummeting ten feet, he’d wager. Best to keep her safe.

Dawn had been coming by almost every afternoon, as promised — sometimes with a movie, sometimes with homework she needed help with, always with a fresh treat for his pet. As if the little freeloader needed more spoiling, he groused to himself as he opened a fresh can of tuna. Still, it was good to see Dawn regularly. He’d promised after all, and now that the witches had gotten part-time jobs to supplement their financial aid and Dawn’s child support payments, she really didn’t have a lot of company in the afternoon. So they’d hang out until supper, playing cards or watching the telly, then he’d patrol with a selection of the gang, and then he’d lurk in the area making sure the house on Revello Drive was safe as… well, safe as houses… and then he’d pass the torch again to the witches, Tara rising to salute the sun while he returned to the darkness. It was a good life. He was useful, Dawn was safe, the Hellmouth was protected….

Buffy was still dead.

These were the worst moments, just after the sun rose. When he was guarding Dawn, or fighting demons, he could pretend that he was complete, that he wasn’t essentially alone. But here in his bedroom, no company but a cat that still bit him most days, the sun a malevolent presence overhead — that was when the emptiness roiling inside burst out like a swarm of bees, threatening to overwhelm him.

Still dead.

There were moments he clung to, tiny bright spots of memory. A soft kiss of gratitude. An invitation. Words of trust on the stairs. _He stays. Get over it._

He would never get over this. Not if he lived another century.

Still, he had the moments, and they were enough to build a fantasy. He fell back onto his bed, eyes closed, remembering the hair, the eyes, those soft, soft lips. His hand drifted down to his cock, desperate to turn the memories into something real, some sort of escape from the Buffyless void that was his present and his future.

_He’s here because we need him_ from his memory changed to _you’re here because I need you_ , soft lips on his, and in his vision she took him by the hand, escorted him past the wide-eyed Scoobies, into the back bedroom of the Winnebago she’d claimed as her brooding space once upon a time, except now it was theirs, their space, and she tugged him down to the tiny bed, green eyes soft and loving, and though it was his own cold hand he felt, pumping his hard cock desperately, he imagined it was her hand, her warrior’s hand, rough calluses smoothed over with hand cream, strong and capable and graceful and fragile, delicate bones that were a deadly weapon, the delicious contrast that was his Slayer summed up in the palm of her hand, warm and demanding…. He couldn’t quite stick with the vision, it wasn’t true enough, but he let his mind move forward anyways, to the battle, his hand still pumping desperately, and this time, when he ran up the tower, he didn’t bother explaining himself to Doc, nasty betrayer that he was, he just tackled him right off the tower, using the wanker’s body to break his own fall, and he stood and looked up to see Dawn and Buffy, atop the fragile tower, embracing, no blood, no portal, no jump….

He came hard, imagining the morning light in Buffy’s hair as she stood there alive.

He opened his eyes to see his cat looking at him, curiously, as if he were a particularly perplexing cat toy.

“Enjoy the show?” he muttered, grabbing a discarded T-shirt to clean up, then snagging last night’s half-drunk glass of whiskey. A little dusty, but that seemed fitting. “Here’s to day one hundred and seventy-eight of not walking into the sun, because I made a bloody stupid promise to a bloody confusing lady.” He couldn’t say her name today; he just tossed the liquor back fast.

Summer purred in response, butting her head against him, green eyes bright with trust and adoration, and he petted her, because she was there and not biting him.

Bloody confusing feline.

Good thing he liked a spot of confusion when it came to women.

*

Buffy startled awake at the feel of Spike sitting up. Was it tuna time again? Her tummy was still feeling full, but she always had room for more tuna.

Spike didn’t make any signs of heading for the can opener, though, just sitting and staring bleakly into the darkness. He did that a lot, she’d vaguely noticed. He was sure taking her death hard for someone who’d hated her not too long before. Here she’d been dead for… some time, she supposed… and she was doing all right. And she was the one who’d died!

Still, she had learned that mopey Spike gave her the best belly rubs. She nudged her way onto his lap, purring when he petted her. Ah, yes. This was good.

Tuna would make it better. She meowed pointedly, nudging her head against his chin.

He didn’t seem to get her subtle hint, though, petting her absently for a while before tossing back the covers and standing up. She settled back into the cool nest, watching him as he strode across the room.

She’d long since gotten over being embarrassed by Spike’s nakedness — it wasn’t personal, she knew; he was just naked a lot. Once she’d recovered from her initial shyness, she’d decided to just enjoy the show. The undeniable truth was, Spike was a beautiful beast. The cat in her admired his strength and petting skills and agility with a can opener, but the part that remembered being Buffy… she admired a whole lot more.

It was funny too, because it wasn’t like he was posing for her. He was just going about his naked business, not bothering to flex his muscles or show off his abs or even try to be graceful — he stumbled regularly, especially when he was all alcohol-stinky — and it had come to be somehow just… comfortable. She could admire the curve of his bare behind, or his thighs, and it was just like looking out the window and admiring the color of the sky, or a particularly well-formed rose.

His penis, she had noted, was exceptionally well-formed. From a completely aesthetic perspective.

She didn’t, she admitted, have a very large range of experience to compare it with. She hadn’t even gotten a good look at Angel’s or Parker’s, and Riley had preferred dim lighting and covers on, so she hadn’t exactly gotten to examine his either, but he hadn’t been averse to a dimly-lit blowjob, and she’d been a normal teen and a normal college student, she’d seen pictures, and she knew what penises generally looked like. Spike’s, she was certain, was very nice indeed.

It had been fascinating, the first time he’d tossed off in front of her, observing the way he’d gone from half-aroused to fully erect, the proud curve of his cock when he’d been completely lost in it, the way he’d jerked when he came…. It wasn’t something she’d ever gotten to watch in her human life, the life cycle of the penis, like watching a caterpillar become a butterfly right before her eyes.

It was a constant conflict, though, because the cat part of her saw dangling bits and thought “cat toy” and wanted nothing more than to claw at the bits that had the effrontery to dangle in her presence. At the same time the Buffy part of her knew that clawing at Spike’s penis would be not only a bad idea, but also a crying shame. Possibly sacrilege.

She watched him through narrow eyes as he poured himself a glass of stinky alcohol, lifting it high.

“To Buffy Summers. Day number two hundred and twelve. Not that anybody’s counting.” He drank and poured again, starting to pace.

Buffy purred, watching him circle the room. She was touched that he was still drinking to her after… well, she was having trouble grasping just how many two hundred and twelve was, counting wasn’t so much a thing she did these days, but she vaguely felt that it was a lot, and she was pretty certain the first number she’d heard him say back when he’d taken her in had been a lot less, though again she wasn’t much for math, and so didn’t that mean she’d been with him for a lot of days too? Watching him drink and weep and watch TV and read and do all those things that she never used to imagine him doing.

As he paced, she suddenly felt a twinge of… she really didn’t know what it was. Not regret, she supposed, but a vague wish that when she’d been human she’d taken just a little time to learn some of what she knew now. She didn’t think she’d been wrong not to like him, or not to trust him — he’d given her ample reason for both — but after he’d shown that he wasn’t just pure evil, that he could be trusted with Dawn, she wished just a bit that she’d trusted him with herself too. Laughed with him, talked with him, maybe even kissed him again, a real kiss, not just a peck of gratitude.

Some nights, watching him sleep, she’d even imagined doing more, imagined that when she’d invited him into her house again, the night before the dawn that was her sunset, she’d invited him in all the way, invited him up to her room, invited him into her body, stolen a final moment of bliss before leaving humanity behind for good. There hadn’t been the time, she knew, not a moment left to be stolen, but if she’d known then what she knew now, she’d have created the moments, let him whisper into her hair the words he now wept into his pillow, demanded his touch and his kiss and, yes, demanded that he make love to her, fast or slow, tender or wild, maybe even all of the above. Her last days had been so very bleak. She wished she’d let herself seize some joy.

She didn’t really regret her choices. She knew why she’d made them, and even if she hadn’t, it was hard to regret things when there were mice to hunt and moths to chase and vitally important naps to take. So no, she didn’t regret. She just… imagined.

Certainly it was too late now. Her cat self was as uninterested in human sex as her Buffy self was in cat sex — maybe even more so, because Buffy at least was very interested in _not ever_ having cat sex, which she had heard was painful and not especially consensual. (She was extremely grateful that Spike kept her as an indoor kitty, because she did not want to find out for sure first hand.) And she knew that her friends had given up on trying to bring her back — a concept that had infuriated her right from the start. So she wasn’t ever going to find out.

She also apparently wasn’t going to get any more tuna; Spike’s frenetic strides had started to turn into stumbles, and with a groan he finally came back to the bed and collapsed right in the middle, splayed out on his stomach.

Perfect. His back just happened to have the comfiest curve, right in the small of his back. Buffy settled into the cozy divot, letting her tail flick along his ribcage and stretching her claws out to knead contentedly at his attractively-shaped rear end. Mmm, nice.

As she drifted off to sleep, she heard his voice say her name, slurring it into his pillow, along with something else. She thought it might be “I’m sorry.”

_I’m here_ , she thought sleepily. _And I forgive you._

_But next time you wake up, I expect treats._


	2. part 2

*

“So what are we getting out of this, again?”

Willow barely managed not to roll her eyes at Anya. She still did not quite see what Xander saw in her, but now that they were all engaged and planning the shindig, she supposed there was no getting out of it now. Not even the wedding shower Anya had been broadly hinting she expected Willow to throw for her, because her “real friends” were too busy with their careers. _Probably melting people’s faces and giving them infectious diseases_.

Thankfully Tara had more patience. “We’re not getting anything out of it but peace of mind,” she said firmly. “We just want to know that she’s safe and well cared for, whoever she is now. We’re not going to interfere.”

“So you say,” Anya persisted. “What if she’s not well cared for? What if—”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Willow interrupted. “This spell is just about finding her. Revealing her true self to those who love her.”

“There’s some charms and blessings involved, too,” Tara added. “Nothing invasive, though. Just general good-fortune type things. Prayers that she’ll get her heart’s desire, charms for protection, that sort of thing.”

“Still sounds iffy to me,” Anya sniffed.

Willow sighed. “Look, I know Buffy wasn’t as important to you as she was to us, but it’s really important that everyone in the circle have positive energies. If you don’t want to be a part of it…”

Anya glanced over at Xander, who was being very carefully silent, and sighed. “No, I can be positive. Look at me! I’m just a font of positivity.” She forced a smile, which turned more real when Xander slipped his hand into hers.

“That’s the spirit,” he said softly, and then Tara took Anya’s other hand and Willow closed the circle.

They started to chant.

It wasn’t a long spell; after Xander had guilted her up a bit over her original plans to bring Buffy back — which, she had to admit in retrospect, had been a teensy bit reckless — she had promised she’d not do anything until she could do it right, and so Willow had researched it extensively, and then Tara had offered her suggestions, and then she’d even reached out to Giles and he’d connected her with a coven across the pond, who’d helped her clean it up, and now it was efficient and clean, a humble beseeching of the Goddess, and as she felt the energies swirling around the circle, she smiled, because they _had_ done it right. She knew Xander knew it too, because he gave her hand a little squeeze.

“I felt the love,” Tara breathed as the magicks began to fade. “Did you feel it, too?”

“Sure, I felt it.” Anya glanced over at Xander, eyes hungry. “Are we done here? Because I kind of—”

“Wait,” Willow blurted out, even though she was feeling the same thing — rich sensuality and adoration, which her body was translating into, well, lust. They had to finish it, though. “The locator won’t last forever. We need to see where she is.”

Tara picked up the globe — Willow’s personal globe, the fancy one her mother had gotten her when she’d been two, to inspire intellectual curiosity — and gave it a spin. “There,” she whispered, halting the globe where they could all see the tiny pinprick of green light.

Xander squinted. “Hey, California! That’s lucky.”

Willow looked closer. “Not just California,” she said softly, meeting Tara’s eyes. “She’s here. She’s in Sunnydale.”

“Oh.” Xander glanced over at Anya, who was raising her eyebrows significantly in the direction of the door. “So, now what do we do?”

“Um….”

Tara took up her hand, giving it a little squeeze. “The spell should reveal her to us,” she said confidently. “I bet we’ll know when we see her. Maybe we can try a locator spell tomorrow? Now that we know she’s in town…”

“...we can track her down,” Willow finished. “Maybe I can—”

“Tomorrow,” Tara said firmly. “We all need to rest first.”

“But I—”

Xander and Anya were already gone, and then Tara took her other hand up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“It’s not like she’s going anywhere,” Tara said reassuringly. “I mean, she’s been around less than a year. What kind of trouble could a baby get into in just one day?”

*

Spike awoke with a start, wondering what time it was. Late morning, he finally judged, from the ominous feel of the air, the prickle of sun-awareness at the nape of his neck, and the fact that he had clearly sobered up from the tumblers of whiskey he’d knocked back the last time he’d awoken. A bleeding shame, but he supposed he’d have to face Day Two-Hundred-and-Twelve eventually, just as he’d faced Two-Hundred-and-Eleven, and Two-Hundred-and-Ten…. He rolled over onto his back, tossing an arm over his eyes, wondering how many days he would have to count before he was able to sleep a whole day through, undisturbed by grief and regret. Five hundred? A thousand?

Summer leapt up onto the bed, her eyes fixed on him intently; he glared at her from under his arm, though without heat, as she picked her way up the blanket and stepped right onto his chest, curling up and purring right into his face. He sighed and gave in to her subtle hint, stroking her fur, closing his eyes against the guttering light of the few candles he’d left burning.

He lay there for a long time, his cat’s fur tickling at his chin, and he must have fallen back asleep and slipped straight into dreaming because one moment his fingers were stroking a pelt of soft gray cat fur and the next they were tangled in long strands of hair, and the slight weight of Summer on his chest had been replaced by a greater weight, spread warmly all along his body, and he opened his eyes to see, not the satisfied green eyes of his precious cat, but the top of a head, parted hair of a shade of blonde he’d always recognize, and past it, glimpses of bare skin, and his nostrils flared wide, taking in the exotic, indescribable scent of _slayer_ , and he felt tears come to his eyes.

“Buffy…” Spike murmured, giving in to his dream and pressing his lips to that sweet part, both hands coming up to stroke her impossible hair.

She stretched out along him, pressing into his caresses, and he let his hands wander further, down from her tangled hair to stroke along her back, and oh, he knew he was dreaming but her skin was warm and soft over strong, sleek muscles, and she sighed, warm breath across his chest, and moved upwards, nuzzling into the hollow of his throat, a hand splaying out across his bare chest, and he kissed her again, the curve of ear exposed by the tangle of gold, and inhaled her, wishing it were reality, wishing he could stay in the dream and never wake up.

He let his hands wander further south — it was his dream, after all — and traced his fingertips along the curve of her arse; she made an approving noise in the back of her throat, her fingernails digging in slightly to his chest, little pinpricks of pain amid the pleasure of her warmth, and she tilted her hips into his caresses, her bare breasts sliding against his ribcage and he kissed her hair and her ear and the nape of her neck, murmuring adoration into her delicious scent—

—And she stiffened and pushed herself back, staring down at him in surprise through her tangled hair.

“Spike,” she said in a hoarse voice, and then she sat back further, legs sliding onto the bed and folding beneath her, hands coming to her mouth, trembling, and then she held them up in front of her, staring at them as if she’d never seen hands before, and oh, Spike knew this dream, this nightmare, this was the part where she flung him away, told him he was a monster, that he couldn’t possibly love, that he was nothing, but her eyes flickered suddenly from her hands to his face, sharp as a stake.

“You see me,” she said abruptly, hands still held out in front of her.

He laughed. “You’re all I bloody see.” And if he was going to be staked in his dream, he might as well be staked for a sheep as a lamb; he reached out a hand, setting his palm to hers. Her skin felt strangely smooth, as if the calluses of stake and sword had been washed away. “I love you, Buffy.”

She nodded distantly, staring at their hands, her fingers tangling in his, and then she drew his hand up to her cheek, rubbing her cheekbone against it, face thoughtful, and then she closed her eyes and set his hand to her throat, dragging it down along her body, between her breasts and down to her belly, eyebrows knitting in concentration, and then her eyes popped open, green and intense and fixed on Spike’s face, oh god, her eyes, and she smiled down at him and licked her lips.

“More,” she said. “Touch me more.”

He sat up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her waist and curving in to press his forehead to her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around his head, rubbing her cheek against his hair, pressing him close, and he breathed her in and swung her around, laying her down in the very middle of his bed, because he was by god going to worship her as she deserved, figment though she may be.

She grinned up at him as she stretched luxuriously, eyes heavy-lidded, her arms spreading wide. “Love me,” she demanded, and he groaned because he did, he still did love her, god help him, he always would.

He ran his hands in long strokes from throat to hip, mapping out her curves, and she arched into him and gasped. Naked, she looked not at all like he’d imagined — when he’d fantasized about her, he’d somehow always made her a mishmash of the bodies he’d known, somewhere between Drusilla’s slender paleness and Harmony’s lush curves — but this Dream-Buffy was trim and pert, her skin dusted with gold, her breasts high and small and perfect with pale pink nipples that hardened and darkened beneath his hands until he couldn’t bear it any longer and he leaned down and took one between his lips, curling his tongue around it and god the taste of her, it was so real and intense he’d almost think this wasn’t a dream, except of course it had to be, because the real Buffy would never clutch at his head, little oh’s of pleasure coming from her lips, nor would she be running her hands along his body in echo of his own explorations, or running her tongue along the column of his throat, or murmuring encouragement as his hand traveled across her hip and in to where she was hot and wet with desire, desire for him, for Spike alone.

It had to be a dream.

*

Buffy knew it wasn’t a dream. She knew she had somehow, miraculously, been returned to humanity; that somehow that miracle had left her naked atop Spike, who was equally naked; she even knew that at some point she would have to consider why and how it had happened, and possibly find some clothes. Or at least underwear.

But Spike’s hands were on her, and she marveled at the realization that his hands on her human skin felt even better than they had on her fur, that a new dimension had been added to the sensual joy of being petted, that now she wanted more and more and more, she knew exactly what she wanted, and she wanted it with body and mind and soul.

When she’d been a cat, she’d remembered being Buffy, but it had been almost like a dream, the memories and will of her humanity overridden by the essential cat-ness of her, and now that she was human again, the cat-memories were dreamlike and vague, but she still remembered. Remembered the kindnesses, large and small; remembered watching him grieve, and care for Dawn, and protect her friends, remembered him striving against his nature to do good, and most of all remembered everything that wasn’t even good and evil but was just _Spike_ , the way he cried at the wrong parts of movies and the way he sometimes sat by candlelight and read poetry aloud and the stories he told and the way he laughed, and while she wasn’t at all certain what she felt, couldn’t put it into words, she knew that Spike was now something special to her, someone precious, and his hands filled her with joy, and his eyes adored her as was her due, and she wanted him.

She let him worship her to start, reveling in the simple sensations of being in a human body, of having breasts that shivered deliciously under his hands, of desire pooling in her belly. He stroked her everywhere, arrowing in until his fingers were finally stroking her where she wanted to be petted most, his fingers gently stroking through her wetness, his eyes flickering over her face, changing from wonder to joy to terror with every moment, and she smiled, feeling her power, arching in to his hand, murmuring _yes_ and _Spike_ and _there_ , loving that she had words again even though her body spoke twice as loud.

And it was good to be worshipped, but the reverence with which Spike was touching her felt wrong somehow — not bad, never bad, it felt better than she’d ever imagined it could feel — but somehow she felt like he’d set her on a pedestal, kneeling at her feet, and she knew now that was not the kind of goddess she was. She wasn’t the sort for hymns and flowers — no, she needed drums and blood and sweat, fever and flame, skin and bone and self laid bare, his dead heart held aloft, a trophy in her bloody hand, still beating and beating only for her.

She bared her teeth and surged up, pressing him back into the bed, her hands hard on his shoulders, and she gloried in the way his eyes widened, pleased surprise and speculation, and then narrowed into wicked hunger.

“I’m done with just being petted,” she purred down at him, straddling his chest, scraping her nails lightly down his throat. “I don’t know how this happened, and I don’t know how long it’s going to last, but I do know what I’m going to do.”

Spike’s eyebrows lifted. “Do tell.” There was a light in his eyes that she recognized — something playful and naughty and full of glee. Something she hadn’t seen in forever.

Buffy bit the tip of her finger, shifting her hips, feeling his muscles tense beneath her. “I wonder,” she said teasingly, but she didn’t wonder at all, she’d known for a long time what she would do if she ever had Spike at her mercy again, though when she’d been a cat it had just been an idle fancy.

She, Buffy Summers, the slayer (née Summer the Cat), was going to make love to William the Bloody, still-basically-evil vampire, and she was going to enjoy every second of it.

Buffy remembered making love. Remembered Angel, and Parker, and Riley, but she also knew it hadn’t ever been like this, her body and mind open wide. She remembered worrying, even as she tried to let go — her every move tempered by fear that she would look unattractive, or be too forward, or too strong, or too enthusiastic, that the guys she was with would think she was a slut, or not feminine enough, or that they would be turned off by something she did. Angel had planted the seeds of that fear, when he’d lost his soul, and Parker had nurtured it, and Riley had never really done anything to assuage it — she’d never really gotten over that, always wanting to be who the man she loved wanted her to be. Pretending she was normal, giving in to what her lovers wanted, never asking for more.

Well, to hell with that. She was finally Buffy again, and Buffy was beautiful and strong and loving and beloved, and she was going to make love like herself, with everything in her, not holding an ounce of herself back. No pretending, no inhibitions, no holds barred, the way she’d learned to live over the past months.

She knew Spike could take it.

She shifted again, sliding her knees out to trap Spike’s arms by his side. “Do you really want me to tell you?” she said, keeping her voice light as she dragged her hands from his shoulders up her thighs and across her curved belly to her breasts. They were still damp from Spike’s tongue, and she rubbed the dampness into her nipples, feeling her own breath quicken. “Or would you rather I show you?”

His trapped hands clutched at her ankles. “Both,” he murmured, watching her hands.

“Then watch.” Buffy trailed her hands back down, rising up on her knees so Spike could see as she stroked herself, spreading her damp folds wide, fingers meeting at the hard nub of her clit. She traced it slowly, watching Spike as he watched her, and then faster, and oh, he was licking his lips, and his tongue, she wanted his tongue, she needed it, and “do you want it?” she gasped and he just growled, his hands pulling fruitlessly at her ankles. She laughed and walked her knees forward, inch by inch, still stroking, harder, faster, and then she was far enough forward that his hands were free and he clutched hard at her thighs, urging her forward and forward until at last he dove upwards, his tongue lapping at her wet fingertips, and yes, that was it, that was what she wanted. She dragged her fingers back up her belly to rub her breasts again as she sank closer to his mouth, and he growled again, there might have been words, but it didn’t matter, all that mattered was his tongue exploring her, thrusting and flicking and lapping, and then he caught her clit between his lips and sucked, soft and steady and relentless, and she reached out blindly and caught at the headboard for support, making sounds that also might have been words, it didn’t matter, because his tongue, his mouth, oh god oh god and then his teeth, and she screamed, held upright by only his hands on her ass as she convulsed, and this was something she hadn’t remembered, and she had just enough time to realize that that was because there was nothing to remember, she’d never let go like that before, and then Spike’s tongue was on her again before she even made it all the way back down, pushing her right back over the top so fast and hard she laughed in surprise, and then he began to press soft kisses along her trembling thighs, watching her with a heavy-lidded gaze of pure satisfaction, his chin glistening wet.

She reached down and brushed a thumb through that wet trail and across his lips; he caught her thumb gently between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth for a moment.

“That what you wanted?” he murmured, pressing his lips to her palm.

“Some of it,” she said regally.

“There’s more?” he gasped in mock-surprise.

“Yes, more,” she sighed, and then she raised her eyebrows, giving her hips a significant little twitch. “More,” she said again, commanding, and he rolled his eyes — or maybe they just rolled back in his head from pleasure — and set his mouth to her still-quivering pussy.

He savored her this time, his tongue slowly exploring her, and she savored the feeling as well, using the headboard for support as she tilted her hips in harmony with each lick, her eyes drifting closed as she focused all of her attention on his ministrations, and so she was taken unawares when he sat up, still lapping at her, hands supporting her as he bent her backwards until she was arched back on the bed, her head hanging off the edge, his hands pressing her legs wide, and she dizzily stared at an upside-down vista of candles and cat-trees as he stopped savoring and devoured her, tongue lashing her madly until she could take no more and she lunged up, kissing his lips wet with her, winding one arm about his neck while the other sought his cock, and his hand was there too, guiding, and he was hard against her and hard inside her and she shouted her triumph, her voice low and hoarse as he finally filled her, finally finally, but she wasn’t done, she shoved him back and rode his cock as she’d ridden his face, scratching at his chest with her fingernails, and he swore and rolled her over, driving into her fast and hard as she wrapped her legs around him, clutching at his back, but she wanted more, she rolled them again and they fell right off the bed, laughing, still thrusting together, and then Spike’s arm went around her waist, his eyes dark and intense, and he heaved her back up on the bed on her belly, his thighs sliding under hers and she screamed as he drove into her from behind, one hand in the small of her back pressing her down as the other reached around and pressed hard on her clit and oh god, that was it, that was exactly it, she tilted her hips to him and sucked on her own fingers and then sank her teeth into the snagged pink comforter, waves of ecstasy rolling over her and receding until finally she was boneless, quivering with release, and he flipped her over one last time, laying full upon her, eyes boring into hers as he thrust and thrust and finally jolted with his own release, pressing his forehead to her shoulder with a deep groan, and Buffy stroked his tousled hair and wrapped her arms and legs about him and sighed.

That hadn’t been everything she wanted to do, but it was a good start.

*

Spike lay in the dim candlelight, stroking Buffy’s hair as she snuggled into his shoulder, her fingers scratching lightly at his chest, her hot tongue lapping tenderly at his collarbone between kisses.

“This is all a dream,” he said out loud.

“It’s not a dream,” Buffy said between licks.

“Right. That’s just what a figment would say.”

The figment raised her head, meeting his gaze. “Could a figment do this?” She reached down and pinched his arse.

Well, that did it. He was ready to go again. “Maybe.”

“What about this?” She wrapped her hand around his cock and squeezed.

He groaned but managed a shrug of dismissal; a slow, wicked grin crossed Buffy’s face and she started to kiss her way down his chest.

“Bet a figment couldn’t do this,” she purred, and then her hot mouth was on his cock, sucking tenderly at the tip, and he had to admit that he’d never dreamed anything as delicious as that thing she was doing with her tongue, except of course he couldn’t admit it, because she’d robbed him entirely of speech.

“All right,” he managed a while later, when Buffy was again snuggled into his chest, watching her hand clench and unclench with a small, satisfied smile on her face. “You’re either real, or I’ve died and gone to heaven, and vampires don’t go to heaven.”

“That’s all right. Slayers don’t either.” Buffy snuggled in closer. “Though being a cat was pretty nice, mostly.”

“Not sure I follow,” Spike frowned.

“I was your cat. It was nice. You were naked a lot.” Buffy sighed happily. “But this is much better.”

“My cat?” Spike bolted upright, eyes frantically scanning the room. “Summer? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” No little cat paws came running.

Buffy yanked him back down. “Already here, you dope.”

“But Summer…”

“...is me.” She flipped neatly on top of him, looking straight into his eyes. “Can’t you tell?” She leaned in and gently nipped at his chin, an action heartbreakingly familiar and yet completely different. It was a hell of a lot sexier with human teeth.

“So all those times I was petting you, and feeding you, and scooping your—”

“Me, me, and very regrettably me,” Buffy interrupted, and Spike laughed, and then Buffy’s lips were on his, and he crushed her close, because she was real, she was real and alive, she was real and alive and kissing him, and it was heaven after all.

“How?” he asked when Buffy came up for air. “You were… I saw you….” He shuddered and ran his hands down her back, the warmth feeling like a lie.

Buffy propped her chin on her arms, folded across his chest. “Dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it.” She sat up abruptly, scooting back until her hot quim was resting on his cock, her hands stroking his belly. “It is kinda weird.” She shrugged, smiling down at him like the sun. “Does it matter? I’m here now. For all I know this is just for today, and tomorrow I vanish, or go back to being a cat.”

He sat up, burying his face in her throat. “God, I hope not. I couldn’t… Dawn would….”

“Dawn?” Buffy wriggled in excitement. “I love Dawn! Will she be here soon?”

Spike glanced over at his clock. “Not for a few hours yet.”

Buffy seemed to be thinking hard about that. “So that’s… not soon,” she finally concluded.

“Soon enough.”

Buffy rolled her body against his, sensually. “But not _too_ soon,” she murmured, pressing nibbles of kisses along his jaw, and then she was falling back, laughing, and he fell with her, kissing her ears, her hair, her green, green eyes, her quivering lips, her throat, and then he was inside her, slow and deep, each pump of his hips beating time with her heart, her gloriously alive heart.

He made love to her with all that he was, pouring all the anguish and loss of two hundred and twelve days into each caress, feeling the grief drain away with each sigh and moan and love bite (god), her limpid eyes a balm to his wounded spirit, and when he finally came, he was weeping, salt streaming from his eyes, and she cuddled him close, fingers woven in his hair, nibbling the tears from his cheeks.

Then she flipped him over, grinning down.

“How much time do we have left?”

“Some.”

“Enough?”

He grinned wolfishly right back up at her. “Perhaps.”

“Good. Because I have ideas.”

“Do you, now?”

He had to agree, in the end, that her ideas were splendid.

Unfortunately, after Spike had finished energetically fucking Buffy over one of the carpeted platforms of Elaborate Scratching Post Gymnasium Number One — giving new meaning to the word _shagging_ — they regretfully concluded that it was getting too close to Dawn-time for them to try Buffy’s next idea.

“Later,” Spike promised.

“If I get to stay. I hope I do.” Buffy sighed, inspecting the rug-burn on her tummy. “But just in case, I’m going to live every day like it’s my last.”

“You won’t find me arguing.” Spike tossed Buffy his red button-down and a clean pair of her underpants he’d just happened to have under his pillow. As she buttoned up the shirt, he came up behind her.

“So,” he murmured suggestively, setting his hands on her shoulders and pressing up against her back. “Dawn won’t stay here all night. Suspect you’d like to check in with the Scoobies at some point?” Buffy nodded happily. “All right. Other than the... things we’ve already discussed, anything in particular you want to do with the rest of what might be your only day as a human being?” He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Anything at all.”

“Well, now that you mention it….” Buffy said, looking coyly at Spike through her eyelashes. “Do you happen to have any tuna?”


End file.
